some more, pushing into the rocky mountains, walking switchback after
switchback. My pack’s frame creaked behind me with each step, straining from
the weight. The muscles of my upper back and shoulders were bound in tense,
hot knots. Every so often, I stopped and bent over to brace my hands against
my knees and shift the pack’s weight off my shoulders for a moment of relief
before staggering on.
6 By noon I was up over 6,000 feet and the air had cooled, the sun suddenly
disappearing behind clouds. Yesterday it had been hot in the desert, but now I
shivered as I ate my lunch of a protein bar and dried apricots, my
sweat-drenched T-shirt growing cold on my back. I dug the fleece jacket out of
my clothing bag and put it on. Afterwards, I lay down on my tarp to rest for a
few minutes and, without meaning to, fell asleep.
7 I woke to raindrops falling on my face and looked at my watch. I’d slept for
nearly two hours. I hadn’t dreamed of anything, hadn’t had any awareness that
I’d been sleeping at all, as if instead someone had come up behind me and
knocked me unconscious with a rock. When I sat up I saw that I was engulfed in
a cloud, the mist so impenetrable I couldn’t see beyond a few feet. I cinched on
my pack and continued hiking through the light rain, though my whole body felt
as if it were pushing through deep water with each step. I bunched up my
T-shirt and shorts to cushion the spots on my hips and back and shoulders that
were being rubbed raw by my pack, but that only made it worse.
8 I continued up, into the late afternoon and evening, unable to see anything
except what was immediately before me. I wasn’t thinking of snakes, as I’d
been the day before. I wasn’t thinking, I’m hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail.I
wasn’t even thinking, What have I gotten myself into? I was thinking only of
moving myself forward. My mind was a crystal vase that contained only that one
desire. My body was its opposite: a bag of broken glass. Every time I moved, it
hurt. I counted my steps to take my mind off the pain, silently ticking the
numbers off in my head to one hundred before starting over again. The blocks
of numbers made the walk slightly more bearable, as if I only had to go to the
end of each one.
9 As I ascended, I realized I didn’t understand what a mountain was, or even if I
was hiking up one mountain or a series of them glommed together. I’d not
grown up around mountains. I’d walked on a few, but only on well-trod paths on
day hikes. They’d seemed to be nothing more than really big hills. But they were
not that. They were, I now realized, layered and complex, inexplicable and
analogous to nothing. Each time I reached the place that I thought was the top
of the mountain or the series of mountains glommed together, I was wrong.
There was still more up to go, even if first there was a tiny slope that went
tantalizingly down. So up I went until I reached what really was the top. I knew
it was the top because there was snow. Not on the ground, but falling from the
sky, in thin flakes that swirled in mad patterns, pushed by the wind.
10 I hadn’t expected it to rain in the desert, and I certainly hadn’t expected it to
snow. As with the mountains, there’d been no deserts where I grew up, and
though I’d gone on day hikes in a couple of them, I didn’t really understand
what deserts were. I’d taken them to be dry, hot, and sandy places full of
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